


The Ground Gives Way Beneath our Feet

by Rynfinity



Series: The March of the Damned [4]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Human, Drug Addiction, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Physical Abuse, Sibling Incest, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Suicide Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 02:11:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1727327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rynfinity/pseuds/Rynfinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All in all, it’s pretty wonderful.  At least until, predictably enough, his body starts feeling a little better.</p>
<p>And then, just like fucking clockwork, everything else feels worse.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>This is a direct sequel to <i>The Gates of Hell Swing Open to the Lightest Touch</i> and will make the most sense read after its predecessors.</p>
<p>This story takes place in the same AU and timeframe as does <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1291630/chapters/2678404">Restitution</a> from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/104813">Out of the Mouths of Babes</a>; unlike the Babes stories, this one is told from Loki's point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Stability proves hard to find.

“Can I get you anything, baby?” Thor’s voice is soft and sweet, and Loki laps it up like so much honey.

“Ine ohay,” he tells his brother amiably in return. He doesn’t smile; he’s checked himself out in the mirror several times, in between long naps, and the overall visual effect of having his teeth wired shut like this – even with the pins-and-wires contraption along his jaw neatly covered with gauze pads – is still horror-movie-caliber disgusting.

He can talk fairly clearly if he has to, except when he’s tired, but he’s lazy. Besides, talking this way chokes his brother up from time to time and that’s- it’s kind of fun, honestly.

“Sigyn will be here around noon,” Thor reminds him, but Loki lets it go. It’s simply too much effort to remind his brother that it’s his jaw that’s broken, not his short-term memory. “If you need anything before that,” – Thor gives his hand a gentle squeeze, then carefully closes Loki’s fingers around his cell phone – “just text me. Okay?”

“Ohay,” Loki says again. When Thor delicately kisses his temple, on the good side, Loki hums.

~

After that first exhausting night home from the hospital he really, on the whole, can’t complain. His brother is almost nauseatingly solicitous, tirelessly jumping to his beck and call with everything from utterly delicious milkshakes to help washing up to the best hand job Loki can remember having gotten in years. 

On top of that, he’s sleeping a lot again, and easily, which makes the time fly and takes the edge off of- well, off of most everything. That in itself is no small deal, as Loki’s world has a _whole lot_ of edges. And he’s deliciously high, all the time, despite how the hospital people had told him he probably wouldn’t be.

Sigyn comes faithfully at lunchtime, day in and day out. This time around, neither of them bothers playing at how their situation could be anything it isn’t: Loki just isn’t interested; Sigyn knows it. Both of them are fine about that, as best as he can tell.

Instead, after she gives him his wonderful, wonderful lifesaving drugs and makes sure he drinks his lunch (sadly, not in the usual sense; it’s simply that he won’t be chewing for what sounds like an eternity), she reads to him patiently in her sweet, calming little voice until he drifts back off to sleep.

All in all, it’s pretty delightful.

At least until, predictably enough, his body starts feeling a little better.

And then, just like fucking clockwork, everything else feels markedly worse.

~

Thor recently let on, after one beer too many, that he’s been _talking to a shrink._ Well, he (got huffy when Loki used that term, and instead) called the guy _his therapist,_ because he always has to be all hoity-toity like that, but a shrink is a shrink and Loki’s had more than his fill of them.

Out of the whole idiotic conversation, though, comes something interesting: Thor has been instructed to be more considerate of Loki’s _feelings_.

Up until this point, Loki’s fucking feelings have been nothing but a source of friction between them; invariably he’s too upset when he shouldn’t be, too clingy when he’s sad, too dramatic and too manipulative and too married to his own fucking pain. Now, though, with a licensed and board-certified ally in his court, he can finally work the situation to his own advantage. And damned if he isn’t going to do exactly that.

Except for how his plan inevitably manages to backfire because once he lets himself get wound up he just can’t wind back down.

Which of course, equally predictably, isn’t anywhere near enough to keep him from doing it to start with.

~

It’s a stupid little thing over which to launch a military-grade campaign: Thor had brought him a glass of water and then, when Loki’d complained about how cold it was – which is actually a legitimate beef, because cold water chills the vast array of metal in his mouth and leaves everything feeling surprisingly awful – had basically told him he was imagining the problem.

Loki had tried to disagree; Thor had talked right over him. It’s a scenario they’ve played out thousands of times, in both directions, no matter how healthy either one of them has or hasn’t been. It’s one they will likely continue to reenact for all eternity. Just now, though, Loki has a shiny new weapon in his precious, precious _feelings_ and he’s eager as hell to swing it.

"Just because I can't talk as well as I normally can,” he snarls, a whole lot madder than he probably should be but a) not giving a shit and b) powerless to change it, “don't think for one goddamn second that that gives you a fucking free pass to run right over my feelings like a fucking semi.” Loki sucks a loud breath in between his wired-together teeth. “Do I make myself clear, Thor," he asks, enunciating as precisely as he can.

His brother opens and closes his own mouth a couple of times, soundlessly.

It’s not good enough. Loki’s very short fuse burns right the fuck out; he whips the glass he’s holding, a heavy highball still nearly full of _excessively cold fucking water_ , directly at Thor’s head.

His brother manages to duck with ample time to spare; the glass hits the wall just behind him and shatters with a satisfying, messy crash.

"Jesus," Thor exclaims, shaking water and bits of glass everywhere. "Yes, you have made yourself amply clear. And Loki?" – it’s clear he isn’t planning on waiting for an answer, so Loki doesn’t bother offering one – "Any fucking time you want to try shutting the hell up, the world will be a better place for it."

And that? _THAT_ is simply beyond fucking uncalled-for.

Loki can’t even be bothered with trying for words. Instead, he just screams and howls and roars, louder and louder, until his own head is aching from the noise. As his face contorts with the effort, he can feel the skin of his jaw opening back up – can feel the salt of his tears burning in the little cuts and rips – and it’s beautiful and awful and he _fucking can’t stop screaming._

He can’t, or he doesn’t (he simply isn’t sure which) until he is truly too drained to go on. When he finally runs out of gas and collapses back into the bedding – nose clogged, throat raw, lungs burning – Loki can’t even begin to pull in enough air.

"You're frustrated. I get it, I do,” Thor tells him, much more quietly now. “I shouldn't have yelled at you," he adds, and Loki knows in his rotten little heart of hearts that he should be acting sorry – should be _being_ sorry - too.

Instead, when Thor touches his foot – gently, nothing threatening about it, but he just can’t calm himself down and he can’t stop and he’s fucking _crazy_ after all – Loki kicks at his brother as hard as he can.

He catches Thor in the wrist, with force enough to hurt his own foot. It works pretty perfectly, really, except for the part about how he’s too fucking gone to care: His brother moves without thinking to pin him down and _steps on broken glass_. "Oh, fuck everything," Thor screams, flinging both arms up in a gesture of impotent rage. "Just fuck it. Fuck it all to fucking hell!"

The door slams, and Loki is alone.

Except now he doesn’t want to be, because he is Loki and he is never, ever satisfied; he wails again – even though he barely can – until his voice is all but gone and his mouth tastes of blood.

Still, Thor _doesn’t come back._ Loki whimpers and sobs for a little while; sadly, terrifyingly, that doesn’t work either.

The pain inside of him is far, far too big to handle. It needs to come out, now. Yesterday, even. Loki flips over, arms dangling off the side of the bed, and roots through the closest glass shards until he finds a good one.

~

Glass hurts a lot more than a razor blade. It’s easier to maneuver, though, especially for curved letters like _O_ and _R_. And for hearts.

~

 _This doesn’t look half-bad_ , Loki thinks, adrenaline-jacked and a little woozy, as he carefully studies the bleeding, drippy _I (heart) THOR_ he’s just carved – there’s really no other word for it; his flesh is cut open like so much sirloin – into his left forearm. _But Thor is going to kill me_ , he mentally amends as the door finally - _finally_ \- flies open.

His brother doesn’t, though. “Jesus, Loki,” Thor says, after a few moments of shocked-looking silence, and Loki isn’t sure the last time he’s been so thoroughly prayed for. His brother hurries to the bed, wisely wearing shoes this time, and cuddles him close.

“I’m going to call Sif,” Thor says at last.

Loki lets him. He’s too tired to argue anymore.

~

After Sif joins them (and gets him to admit he’s off his regular meds with shameless ease), Loki doesn’t have to do the bulk of the arguing anyway. It’s certainly true that Loki isn’t really giving their discussion anything close to his full attention; even so, it’s hard to miss how she’s giving his brother a most excellent tongue-lashing.

In fact she manages to lecture Thor all the way from _soup_ to _nuts,_ not even pausing for breath at _pasta course_ or at _entrée_ , as she all the while cleans and bandages and matter-of-factly makes the pharmacy arrangements Loki _never seems to find the time to care of_.

When at last she leaves for work, Sif stops by the sofa – where Loki had been handily set for safekeeping some time ago – and plants a friendly kiss on his cold, sweaty forehead. “I know you don’t like to take anyone’s word for anything, baby,” she whispers, for his ears alone, “but there really are better ways to get your point across, you know.”

~

Maybe she’s right about that; maybe she’s wrong. As Thor joins him on the sofa that night (the bed having been rendered temporarily out of commission by a combination of his earlier _calligraphy session_ and his brother’s subsequent cleanup efforts), cradling Loki’s head in his lap and crying softly, Loki finds himself wholly unable to decide.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you can't win for losing; other times you can't lose for winning. If only he could tell the difference.

"it fucking hurts, thank you very little," Loki grouses, angry and a little shaky and still feeling the effects of the _mental hangover_ with which last night seems to have graced him.

"That's too bad," Thor says, and he sounds quite a bit more disgustingly smug than he has any business being. "Because I think you're pretty much stuck with Advil."

Loki can use his left hand but his arm is sore - stiff and swollen and _fucking throbbing_. His brother did _nicely_ offer to take him over to urgent care for stitches earlier - all the while banking, Loki's certain, on how he would say no… what with the subject matter and so on - but such a little bit of self-harm certainly doesn't warrant that much fussing. That, and he's not the least bit interested in adding yet more members to the _Loki needs help_ \- with _help_ in giant air-quotes, of course, surrounded by pink fucking neon - fan club.

Which, inevitably, advertising the way he's been carving love messages to his brother, _who is also his fuck buddy_ , into his own flesh will cause.

He bares his metal-criss-crossed teeth in a nasty not-smile. "Awesome," he snaps back at Thor, hard-edged and sarcastic. "Because nothing out there beats good old Advil."

In return, his brother shoots him one of those looks that says a lot of the _scared me shitless_ points he'd earned himself last night have already passed their expiration date. "Well, isn't that just too bad," Thor says, unusually close to on par from a sarcasm standpoint. "Maybe next time you’ll think twice before you to slicing yourself to ribbons."

Yeah, fat chance of _that_ happening.

"I wouldn't bet anything you can't stand to lose on _that_ one, brother," Loki offers up with a broad wink.

Thor snarls through gritted teeth, fists clenched, but he doesn't so much as _tap_ Loki. Not anywhere.

Ahh, progress. Hip Hip Hoo-fucking-ray.

~

His brother calls the office at 8:00 sharp, right when the receptionist always arrives, to let everyone know he is going to be late this morning. Because, of course, that’s what responsible people do, and All Grown Up Thor is nothing if not nauseatingly responsible.

Responsible people call in when they're going to be late.

Responsible people are late because they have to rush to pharmacies and get their brothers (illegally-prescribed, but of course no one’s mentioning that part) antipsychotics.

Responsible people order their crazy-ass brothers to stay put while they're out picking up said antipsychotics at said pharmacy, _because so help me I will call 9-1-1 and then where will we be?_

Right; in jail, Thor and Loki both (not to mention a few others). But evidently responsible people don't _get_ that part, because they are far too busy being _earnest_ to ever bother with being _smart_.

Fortunately for oh-so-earnest Thor, Loki is utterly disinterested in going back to prison... especially not with his jaw wired shut and a great big bloody _I'm gay and I'm a nutjob_ billboard carved into his arm. All told, that overrides his own innate dislike of behaving responsibly. Which is saying something.

Instead, Loki stays put like a good little doggie. And when his brother comes home, proudly brandishing _Laufeyson, Loki's_ Good Boy Pills, he lets Thor watch him wiggle the first dose – they’ve graciously given him the smallest pills possible, meaning he has to take more – between his teeth.

Lets his brother watch as he chases the stupid shit down with giant gulps of ginger ale sucked in with enough force to collapse the straw.

When he tips his head back and swallows the last of it extra, extra hard, for dramatic effect, Loki can't help but hear Thor swallow too.

Evidently the weirdest fucking things are sexy to _responsible people._

~

The stuff Sif’s guy wrote for him – it’s basically the same shit he took years ago, when he was doing whatever it might take to get sprung from the nuthouse – leaves Loki, predictably, feeling like ass. He vividly remembers telling his shrink du jour, back in the day, that she didn’t even care if he got better; she was just drugging him to slow him down and make him easy to catch.

Because it sure as hell does that. His brain is sluggish; his limbs are leaden. There’s no risk of him slitting his fucking wrists now; he’ll fall asleep on the way to the kitchen, long before he can actually locate a knife. Or, if he does somehow find one, he’ll just stare at it stupidly with no idea whatsoever how to use it.

~

At the time, he recalls, the doctor had only looked at him sadly. _You might not even need to take your pills,_ she’d reminded him, shaking her head slowly from side to side, _if you would just put some actual effort into your talk therapy._

Talking always gets him nowhere.

~

When he wakes straight out of a very odd dream a few mornings later, Loki is surprised to hear voices. Actual voices, _outside_ his head. He cracks the bedroom door open and leans into the frame to listen.

“He does not! He’s fine,” he hears his brother saying, a little heated, and that’s more than enough to lure him out into the hall.

“Fine, Thor? Really?” Interesting. It’s Sif, who isn’t usually here this time of day. She must have stopped by on her way home from the night shift so she and his darling brother could have a stealthy little talk about _Sleeping Beauty._ “He just carved your fucking name into his own flesh with broken glass because- because- well, because he does things like that,” she says, sharp and insistent, as Loki makes his silent way past the bathroom. “Does that seem even remotely like _fine_ to you? _Does_ it?”

Loki doesn’t wait for Thor to answer. “Does what seem fine,” he asks mock-brightly from just inside the kitchen doorway, because they’re talking about him like he’s a thing and he _hates_ it.

The two of them jump a fucking mile, Sif clutching her chest and Thor tossing coffee everywhere. Under different circumstances the whole thing would be funny, him sneaking up on them so perfectly, but Loki can see where this is going and he _does not like it._

“You do realize,” he says coldly, when the two of them merely sit there silently dumbfounded, “that – when you freak out enough to spill shit all over yourself, Thor – any answer that doesn’t amount to _oh, we were just talking about you behind your back, brother_ is going to sound like nothing other than the worst sort of lie.” He crosses his arms across his chest, pointedly ignoring the pain in his arm, and eyes them both suspiciously.

“Loki-,” Thor starts in.

“What’s to lie about,” Sif cuts in over top of whatever his brother had intended to say. “We _were_ talking about you,” she confirms, once again calm and self-possessed, leaning back in her chair like nobody’s business. “Starting back on your meds is good,” she offers, “but it’s just that – a start. You really do need to get back into a managed treatment program.”

_NO NO NO._ Even over the stupid medication Loki can feel his brain imploding. There is simply no fucking way. None. Never. He will die before he goes back to that place. To that hell. To those people, with their straps and their muzzles and their electrodes and their needles. He will die right here in this kitchen if that’s what it takes to avoid it.

“I will NOT,” he all but shouts, and it’s okay because he simply cannot emphasize this enough, “go back to that shithole. Will. Not. No one – and I do mean NO one – is _putting me away_ ,” he tells them both, “just to avoid having to deal with how I’m a big fucking nuisance. I’m serious,” he insists, tipping over the edge into _frantic_ , only barely managing to stop himself from screaming at the point where the other night’s fresh scabs on his jaw start to give. “ _I mean it._ I will literally fucking kill my-.”

Thor leaps half out of his seat but Sif somehow stops him. “I meant an outpatient program, Loki. I did,” she hastens to explain, sounding apologetic. Placating. “With some support from Thor, and your friends,” she adds, and isn’t _that_ a fucking hoot, “I really think you can make that work.”

“Right,” Loki scoffs. “Sure. I don’t have friends.” He doesn’t. He has fawning admirers, owners, and captors. And people who want to see him die an ugly, ugly death.

Sif actually looks like she’d to slap him, if that job wasn’t already taken. “Why, thank you,” she says, and he can tell he’s finally gotten to her; actually pissed her off a little. “I love you, too.”

He starts to laugh, cutting himself short when he realizes that he’s far, far too close to hysteria. “See? I make people hate me,” he tells her, because it’s one of his best-honed skills. “I make _everybody_ hate me.

Something odd flashes across her face, and then he _gets_ it. 

“Wait,” he exclaims, whipping around to face his brother, because he can tell Sif _knows_. “You told her, didn’t you?”

Even glaring at his brother Loki can hear the smile in Sif’s voice. “He didn’t need to tell me, kiddo,” she tells him. “Like I reminded Thor earlier, I do have eyes, you know. And you two are just so fucking subtle.”

And that? That’s actually funny. It catches Loki off-guard, and he can’t help but grin. She knows, and she’s okay with it, and despite all his shit she still manages to care somehow. “I suppose we are, now that you mention it,” he tells her. There’s no point in lying; she has _so_ won this round.

~

Point of fact, SIf has him _completely_ wrapped around her little finger. By the time she leaves, he’s somehow even promised to _think about treatment._

As if he doesn’t think about it far too fucking much already.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the end, there just isn't any point.
> 
> Hard stuff here, everyone. Really hard.
> 
>  
> 
> **WARNING** : Strong suicidal ideation from an irrational narrator; on-screen attempted suicide

"I'm fine," he tells Sif, smiling. As long as he's careful to look quickly away, back to the sinkful of dishes he's rinsing and loading into the dishwasher, she won't notice his smile doesn't reach his eyes.

It works; she doesn’t see a thing.

As long as he's careful to say what people want to hear, they don't ask him the hard questions. They don't look at him too closely.

They don’t have to see the monster.

~

Except Loki isn’t really a monster anymore. Instead, he is a hollow, empty shell. A monster's abandoned lair, more like it, full of filth but empty of anything truly dangerous. Anything living.

Sif is cordial to him, like always - she's cordial to everybody - but now that he's patched up and quieted down she doesn't really need him around anymore. She has Thor, of course, and her own friends. She has her coworkers, out there in that elusive _real world_ where Loki simply cannot go.

Most of all, she has her patients; the good ones, the ones who actually get better when she takes care of them. Or, well, they die. “I love them,” she gushes regularly – and it’s not really like her to gush – when she’s telling Thor (never Loki, always Thor) about how being there for them, to ease the last few days of their long lives (or help fight the last battles of their long illnesses), gives her life meaning.

Loki, of course, hasn't got even that much to offer her. He's not going to have days to ease or battles to fight. If he lets this play out he is just going to wither to nothing, until he collapses in upon himself completely and blows away.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

More like the world to ashes and _shit_ to dust, really.

~

Sitting quietly on the sofa, doing nothing yet again because nothing is all he has the energy to do, Loki remembers how he was once the flint to Thor's fuse; the match to his brother's kindling. Whether it was getting fucked hard against the unyielding marble countertops that stretched the full length of their (of _Thor's_ ) parents' master bathroom or merely winding Thor up until those mighty fists flew, Loki always knew his purpose: He provided the catalyst, the secret ingredient that unleashed Thor's power.

_Now,_ he thinks idly - not _sadly_ , because empty shells don't feel sad… in fact, they don’t feel jack shit - as he slides his balm-coated lips along the sweaty curve of Thor's nape, all the while talking dirty because he still has _that_ one last little bit left to offer his brother, _I am nothing. I am useless. I am less than useless,_ Loki tells himself as Thor writhes and shudders beneath his one good hand, _because I serve no purpose_ (seriously... his brother can jerk himself off in half the time) _and yet I consume. I suck. I drain._

When Thor comes, catching Loki unexpectedly – and yet it’s so fitting; he’s worthless once again - on the downstroke and splattering semen all over the bedroom floor, he hurries off to get his own towel and drops to his own hands and knees ("no no, let me - you're not supposed to be using that arm of yours, brother, remember?") to clean up the mess.

Loki is useless, worthless, making all the messes and then leaving them behind.

~

The quieter he is, Loki can't help but notice - the more he stays out of the way, the less he requires - the happier Thor becomes. His brother _likes_ this undemanding husk, this empty box of nothing he has become. _Likes it_ that he is muted and blunted and dull. That he is no longer a cause for worry.

Thor has given it all up – the freedom, the strength, the power that has always defined him – willingly, happily even. He’s given everything up, just to silence Loki.

And Thor is _happy_ , even so; he’s happy with just what he’s bought with his sacrifices.

~

Unfortunately, Loki knows, he can't be like this - dull and washed out and empty - forever. He just can't. But that’s okay, because he can do himself one better; he can be _gone_.

~

Another week into hell and still the heavy grey blanket covering everything in his head shows no signs of lifting. Loki’s arm is largely healed, as is ( _finally_ , Thor says, because that’s yet another ugly reminder; another burden) his jaw. The bright flashes of pain that had once broken up the bleak emptiness are gone, replaced with the sort of formless dull ache old people use to forecast the weather.

Healing or no Loki wears long sleeves everywhere now, down, because there's no point in making people uncomfortable anymore.

~

Sif and Thor both, separately, make him to promise to go back into treatment – ( _outpatient,_ Sif stresses again, but Loki doesn't need to be talked into it this time; more and more he's just saying what people want to hear, knowing that when the time comes to pay up he will be gone) as soon as his faceful of hardware is out. And when he doesn't even try to argue each one of them, also separately, compliments him on how he's _finally come around to recognizing the right course of action_.

Oh, yes, that he has. Of course, he doesn’t say that. Not that they could ever understand. And he wouldn’t tell them even if they might, because he'd just get his sorry ass packed off to the nuthouse faster than you can say _crazy_.

His own solution is cheaper, faster, and guaranteed free of the risk of recidivism.

~

Loki makes himself a little list (just a code based on their initials, in case Thor is still snooping through his things; he’s not going to be derailed by something so maudlin) of the people to whom he wants to say goodbye. It won't be goodbye to them, sure, but it’s enough that he will know. Doing it this way is for the best anyway; he doesn't want to upset anyone. Doesn't want to dilute their relief over his departure with unpleasant talk and guilt.

He's taking all the guilt with him when he goes.

Sif, Sigyn, Volstagg. The nice man at the convenience store who makes him sandwiches.

Thor.

He doesn't have to say goodbye to Frigga; he's going to see her.

Or maybe not, because - if what comes after death isn't just putrefaction - Loki is pretty damned sure he long ago fucked up his chances of going anywhere good. Royally.

Funny how that may be the only thing in his entire worthless life he's hit clean out of the park.

~

While he waits for the chance to mark off each member of his small circle of erstwhile friends – done, done! – to present itself, Loki spends his down time fleshing out his plan.

~

He's not an in-your-face drama queen anymore – even if it has accomplished absolutely nothing else, his new-old medication _has_ seen to that. So, this time, there will be no grand gestures involving blood and gore and endless horror. That was so juvenile. And a repeat engagement wouldn't be fair to Thor anyway; leaving his brother to deal with sort of mess would be needlessly cruel.

Pills, then.

~

Once the surgeon's office works things out with Thor, because Loki is of course too undependable to handle things like booking a fucking follow-on appointment; it's game on; he sweet-talks the nice woman who answers the phone into letting him fill his post-op narcotics prescription a few days in advance - glory be to this fake-real name that isn't yet flagged in the state registry - so he can _get everything ready._

He is, too; getting everything ready, that is. He's preparing to wipe out the pain. That’s what she would want him to do, no?

Actually, when you get right down to it, she would probably feel guilty for breaking the law. But she will never have to know, because Loki is _taking all the guilt with him when he goes_.

~

Not surprisingly, finding a way to say goodbye to Volstagg is what almost throws a wrench in things. Since the _Great Fandral Incident_ it seems the guy never comes around anymore. Still, a plan is a plan is a plan and Loki knows it would be cheating – it would be _wrong_ , and he’s well more than wrong enough already - to deviate from it now solely to make things easy on himself. Loki finally - terrified (okay; very, very mildly terrified) that he's going to be found out, and it's the first thing he's felt in weeks - has to nudge Sif into prompting Thor about having _all their friends_ (hah) over for pizza.

He finds a way to (help her) make it seem like his brother’s idea, because artful manipulation will be the last thing to leave him.

Maybe he’ll take that with him too.

~

“It’s nice to see you at peace,” Volstagg tells Loki that night over dinner, between the fifth and sixth slices of so-called _everything pizza._

Privately, Loki thinks it looks like barf on a crust. “It’s nice to _be_ at peace,” he says instead, and he means it.

Siffy-girl gets an extra hug goodnight (goodbye, and it’s a hard, hard goodbye) at the door. She's _practical_ , which makes it a safe indulgence; she’ll never guess something’s up.

His last indulgence, probably. There’s a last time for everything, after all.

~

Speaking of last times, Loki stops the methadone that night, figuring his odds are better if he lets it clear out of his system. No one pays attention to him anymore, now that he’s faded and quiet… a little _not feeling good_ will go unnoticed, as long as he doesn’t make a fuss about it.

He’s gotten surprisingly good at _not making a fuss_ , actually.

~

Thor’s farewell he takes care of _the morning of_ \- the day he's going for the x-rays he isn't getting, in preparation for the upcoming surgery (the removal of the wiring) he isn’t having - as Odinson, Esquire, Jr. readies his handsome golden self to head off to a big day in court. Loki is extra-careful not to cling, not because Thor will catch on but because he knows he is a blatant waste of sentiment. On top of that, he doesn't want to be remembered as a pitiful little pussy.

Loki saves his big goodbye for paper but says a small one in own his head as he lets his brother fuck him slow and gentle, hands braced against the wall of that perfect, amazing shower.

“Have a nice day, brother,” Thor says as he steps out from beneath the spray and grabs himself a towel.

“I will,” Loki assures him, and he means _that_ too.

He washes up afterwards, choosing the peach body scrub over the chocolate. Chocolate is his brother's favorite. Loki doesn't want to- to do that, not to Thor. This is not Thor’s fault. None of it is.

Loki can leave just the same, even peachy.

~

“Hi,” he offers brightly as Sigyn answers her cell phone. “They need me to come over an hour early,” he explains, tone apologetic, because an extra hour is enough to guarantee he can get home in plenty of time. He knows better than to cancel completely; when he does unpredictable (predictable) things like that, people end up callng his brother to verify because Loki is _conniving and sneaky_.

As far back as he can remember everyone has needed to go to extremes to keep him coloring inside the lines.

~

Okay, most of it is done. Loki has a little time alone before she’ll be here. He walks slowly around the apartment, saying goodbye to the things he’s enjoyed – the kitchen, the sofa. More than anything, the beauty of it all.

And then he sits down at the counter, pen in hand.

_Thank you for everything,_ he writes, as neatly as he can. His hands are shaking slightly. _I know it hasn’t been easy, and I really do appreciate it. But the time has come to say goodbye._ He stops for a moment to see if he’s going to start crying, because this seems like a time he should be crying. He doesn’t. He can’t, really. _I’m afraid I will never be what you want me to be,_ he continues when the tears just don’t fall, _and to be honest I’m just too tired of trying. I don’t have it in me to do it anymore._

There, that pretty much covers it. He signs the note _Love, Loki,_ folds it in half, and tucks it carefully away.

~

Once the ball starts rolling, it picks up speed easily. “Thanks so much,” he tells Sigyn at the radiology office. “You’re always such a help.” He shuts the car door gently, because he’s never been Thor, and watches her leave.

As soon as she’s around the corner he heads quickly on his way, almost jogging; first to the pharmacy to pick up his ill-gotten prescription, and then home.

~

Finally, finally it’s time. He ought to feel something, _anything_. And sure enough he does: guilty. So, so fucking guilty. But that’s still okay, because he’s taking the guilt with him.

So. There’s no time like the present. Loki cuts the pills into manageable chunks.

He swallows the pieces one by one, still in the kitchen, taking way more than necessary just to be sure. Who knows what sort of tolerance he’s built up with the methadone these days?

After only brief hesitation he chases the whole mess with a beer, because there’s no reason dying has to be utterly unpleasant.

And then he carefully cleans up – wipes up the pill dust, rinses the bottle and puts it away, neatly hangs the dish towel over its hook.

He stays in the kitchen a few more minutes – until he is starting to really feel groggy, to the point that it’s hard to balance and harder still to walk – and then heads for the bedroom. He sits (gingerly; it’s getting really challenging not to fall now) in the narrow space between his side of the bed and the wall, out of sight, like an animal going off to hide and die.

Because he _IS_ an animal going off to die, after all. It’s not like he deserves anything better.

~

Now, at long last, it really _is_ time. Note in hand – he thinks… it was there when he lay down, but he can’t tell now… can’t feel his fingers, can’t feel anything – Loki curls up a little tighter and bids his tiny world one last goodbye.

Himself, though, he bids _good riddance_.


End file.
